he heard the calling of ducks and geese and tradesmen trampling to ports mouth square. both sides of the square were taken up by the devil. gambling dens and thrown-together hotels and flammable canvas roofs, oil paper walls and bands who played music full blast. they were silent now. only on the fourth and upper side of the square had god taken a small toehold in a small adobe building where the reverend william taylor preached in thunder, the way of the transgress sor is hard, and that a great calamity was surely to befall the great tinderbox called san francisco. reverend taylor was rarely wrong. the building material was all combustible, all of combustibles, a citizen complained to his friends back east. no fire engines, no hook or ladders and, in fact, no water except in very deep wells. availability might be required. is it not enough to make a very prudent man tremble? this canny resident warned that fire once begun at the windward side would be certain to burn the whole of the boom town to ash in an instant. and he was right. the christmas eve fire first appeare